


Forgive Me

by HexWolf



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, Brief mention of Ramsay Bolton, Broody Jon Snow, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, One Shot, Some Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:41:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23373331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HexWolf/pseuds/HexWolf
Summary: Pre- Battle of the Bastards one shot in which Jon Snow and Sansa Stark can't agree on anything. When tensions are too high and time is running out, who will break first? Will honor overcome passion?
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 11
Kudos: 104





	Forgive Me

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own nor do I claim to own any of the characters used or mentioned in this fic. I don't own Game of Thrones or anything pertaining to the ASOIAF universe, but it would be pretty damn cool if I did.

Time was passing at an unreasonably slow pace, as it always did when Jon argued with Sansa. Drinking during their discussions had practically become a necessity just to get through it. Jon sat leaned back in his chair, slouching into it a bit, as Sansa practically tore him apart with her words. Distantly, Jon found himself wondering if Arya had grown into such an argumentative little thing. He knew better than that, though, and imagined his youngest sister settling her disputes with the rapier he'd gifted her with all those years ago. Just the thought of it made him laugh, at what could be seen as the most inopportune moment.

“Are you even listening to me, Jon?” Sansa demanded with a fire in her eyes that rivaled that of her hair.

“Yes, Sansa. I'm listening.” He said in a tone of annoyed exhaustion before lifting his mug of ale to his lips once more. 

“Then please, tell me what you're thinking going into this battle? Because I fail to see how you're using your head in this situation at all! Do you understand what is on the line?” She demanded. Even in his irritated mood, Jon couldn't help but notice the way that the hearth's flames gave Sansa a magnificent outline. Her pale, northern skin was glowing in the hearth's warm light which proved to only accentuate the worry in her eyes.

“Of course I do. Do you think it doesn't eat away at my heart? To think of what we could lose?” Jon challenged. “We will win, Sansa. Winterfell has always belonged to the Starks. You underestimate my men and the Freefolk because you are blinded by hatred. The same hatred that fueled your mother now flows through your veins! Not only do you underestimate my men, but you underestimate me. It is you that preaches to me about trust, but you have none for me!” He roared and stood from the table, slamming the wooden mug down.

Sansa flinched at Jon's sudden anger, and then seemed to steel herself. There it was... That gaze that would come over her ever since coming to him at Castle Black. Her walls were going up once more. She was protecting herself, and Jon's head and heart ached that it was his fault this time. He rubbed his temples and tried to think carefully about his next words, needing to tread with more tenderness than before. Nightmares about what happened to Sansa plagued Jon's sleep and yet in his waking life, he often forgot. Jon's thinking was too slow, he realized, as Sansa's voice met his ears once again.

“Jon...” She breathed, looking at him with eyes that finally looked like her own again. “He has Rickon. If we fail... He will kill Rickon. He will kill you, and he will take me again. You don't know him, Jon. When he takes me again you don't know what he-”

“He'll never touch you again, Sansa.” Jon declared with an icy voice of finality, staring into Sansa's soul as he spoke. “Never again.” Jon's nightmares resurfaced and he felt the temperature of his blood rising. His blunt nails bit into his palms as he tried to maintain composure.

“You cannot make that promise to me. Not with your current army. Not like this,” Sansa began and Jon sighed in frustration. She was relentless. “Listen to me, Jon! Let me send a raven to Petyr... The Knights of the Vale will aid us. I implore you to see reason!”

Sansa's voice was pleading, but it only proved to further annoy Jon. She implored him to listen but would fall dead before taking his words into consideration.

“Since when are you calling him by Petyr?” Jon inquired, eyes cast down to the hearth.

“You don't understand him. How can you be so cold when he saved my life?”

“Saved your life?” Jon repeated in exasperation. “He handed you to that monster, Sansa! His feelings for you are selfish! Littlefinger has only his own interest in mind!”

Sansa approached Jon, shaking her head. Her pale hands gripped his cloak and he was certain she was close enough to smell the ale on his breath. Jon prayed that it was not so, knowing that she would demand to repeat the conversation when he'd had not a drop. Sansa's features were soft and it occurred suddenly to Jon how much she'd grown... But how could she not? Sansa had been married off twice, almost three times, as if she were no lady but some chess piece in a game to be bargained with. It did not pay well to be a child of Eddard Stark. 

“It matters not. If his men will fight for us, it will seal our victory. Can't you see? Jon... If you lose your life in this battle, the Lord of Light may not return you to us this time.”

Sansa's words made Jon's spine stiffen and he had no choice but to avert his eyes from hers. “I've asked Melisandre not to bring me back this time if I were to lose my life. It is not right to play the Gods, Sansa. If I am meant to die then I must.” He informed her quietly.

The redhead's grip on Jon's cloak tightened and a soft gasp was ripped from her throat. He could feel her hands shaking and he lowered his head. How could he look at her now? He couldn't. Not when her breathing was quickening. Jon's jaw clenched, ready to stand his ground.

“You're a coward, Jon Snow...” She whispered. “If you die, you seal the fate of the Starks. You'll leave me alone in this world, with Ramsay Bolton. Rickon will be killed... Arya and Bran will have no home to return to!” Sansa's voice had become thick with panic and tears. Not only did her hands shake, but her entire small frame was trembling now. Before he could reach for her, Sansa slapped him roughly across the face. Jon stood, stunned, and held his stinging cheek.

“Sansa-”

“No! No! Don't you dare try to reason with me now, Jon! How could you do that? You were brought back for a purpose! There is a reason the Lord of Light brought you back to me!” Sansa cried out, then grabbed Jon's cloak once again while demanding, “And since when do you call her by Melisandre?”

Jon scoffed, cheek still stinging bright red. Insufferable. So much and so irritatingly like her mother. The woman who ruined Jon's childhood was still alive and well in Sansa Stark, but Lady Cat's cruelty was replaced by something else in Sansa. Why was she asking about Melisandre when it mattered not? Jon searched Sansa's eyes and finally gripped her as well; his large hands grabbing her cloak at her hips and pulling her in closer.

“You drive me absolutely mad. Did you know that?” Jon said with eerie calm. He started walking towards the wall swiftly and backed Sansa against it. Confusion and fire clearly burning through them as they were both too stubborn to break the gaze first. The room fell silent save for their rugged breathing and the soft crackling from the hearth. From this close, Jon could smell the scented oils from Sansa's bath lingering on her skin and cursed himself for noticing.

“What are you waiting for?” Sansa breathed, but she was no longer staring in Jon's eyes and instead at his lips. By the gods. She, with her fire red hair and pale cheeks. She, with her sharp tongue and enchanting blue eyes. Jon felt as though we was dying a second time.

Every interaction they'd ever shared hung between them in that moment. Distaste from the time they were young, although he found her to be a radiant lady. She had always preferred Robb over Jon, with his handsomeness and charm. It was Robb who had the true makings of a king. Inside, Jon always knew that it was Lady Cat who poisoned Sansa's opinion of him, but it never made it hurt any less. He gave no thought to how Sansa felt about him... Assuming that she felt nothing at all, and that he was merely a bastard who lived with them. When she came to him at Castle Black, though, his conceptions were changed. The way she looked at him was a look as though she had loved him all her life long, and it filled Jon with emotions he'd been unable to shake. In between questioning Jon's decisions and undermining him in front of the other Northern Lords, Sansa had shown him an unexpected kindness. There was a tenderness. Times of brushing her hand against Jon's, a gaze lingering a moment too long, a sly smile in a crowded room that he knew was for his benefit.

Now here they were, and Jon could practically see the disappointment etched into his Lord Father's face. He could hear Lady Stark demanding that he get his filthy bastard hands off of her daughter, but no apparition of the dead could stop what had been building. He'd spent time arguing with himself and hating every suitor that pursued Sansa and more than enough time brooding. It was always meant to come to a head at some point, but Jon had not expected the direction it would be in. 

As much as he wanted to, he could not bring himself to do it. Sansa needed to be in control. After everything she had gone through... How could he?

“Are you certain?” He asked, bringing a hand up to cradle her cheek as he leaned his forehead against hers. 

“Yes, Jon. I am certain.” Sansa stated and leaned up a bit to brush her nose against Jon's. Her nails bit desperately into his cloak and Jon could hear the longing in her voice, and that was all he reassurance he needed.

Jon captured her lips with his own. Tender and tentative at first, waiting and praying that she would kiss him back... and she did. Everything seemed to fall into place for the first time, as it was a kiss unlike he had ever known. Sansa was ever the lady, as always. Delicate, delicious, and demanding. The tenderness of it all didn't last long before Sansa's mouth was yielding to his, and inviting him in. Jon was far too weak to refuse such an invitation and pressed himself against Sansa, pinning her properly against the wall, as his tongue slipped between her lips. A sound escaped from her throat that made his trousers feel a bit tighter but he continued. The tip of his tongue brushed along the length of hers and suddenly, her tongue was moving languidly against his. Sansa tasted of something sweet, and with her affinity for treats, Jon wasn't surprised. With one hand still cupping her cheek, his other hand held her waist tighter and his mouth moved more urgently against hers.

Jon felt drunk, but he had hardly gotten through his mug of ale during their discussion. His head was spinning and Sansa's hands were everywhere, but more importantly unfastening his cloak. If Jon were a stronger or better man, he would have stopped her. Instead, he found his own fingers unfastening her cloak as well and letting it fall to the floor. Jon broke the kiss for a moment to look at Sansa and take her in. She was beautiful with fire burning in ice blue eyes and swollen lips. The most unbelievable part of it all was that she wanted Jon, and that the look in her eyes was for him. 

It was Sansa who initiated the kiss this time, tangling her hands in Jon's hair and pulling him to her with desperate urgency. It was her tongue that parted his lips to seek out his own, and she who was tasting him. He gripped handfuls of her dress and held her to his body, caressing her tongue with his and releasing soft sounds of contentment of his own into the kiss. She was every part the lady, but every part a Stark at the same time. If she wanted something, she would take it. Jon felt lucky that it was him she wanted to conquer now. The gods had finally, for once in his life, smiled upon him.

“Jon,” She breathed, parting the kiss and Jon felt part of himself ache at the fear she had changed her mind about him. His eyes opened slowly to look at her, bracing himself. She continued, “Please.”

Jon blinked in confusion for a moment, as her words were not what he had expected. Heat spread through his chest as he understood. She was certain, and she had not changed her mind. Her pleading awakened something new inside of him and suddenly Jon felt feral. The room seemed far hotter and perhaps Sansa noticed, because she was kind enough to start removing his light armor. Meanwhile, he could barely stop his hands from exploring the soft fabric of her dress beneath his fingertips. Jon was still not used to seeing Sansa in such dark colors, despite her clear state of perpetual mourning. The dark colors were fitting for her, giving a delightful contrast of fabric against her cream skin. Her skin rivaled the falling snow for which was paler, and her attitude on the surface for which was colder. Jon had grown to love them both.

It was the redhead's turn to make a move, and she didn't miss a moment. Her hands fervently made quick work of removing Jon's leather armor, as if it were a hateful thing she sought to destroy. Jon tangled one hand in thick red locks, holding Sansa's head back while the other hand ripped and tugged at the laces of her dress, and his mouth feasted greedily on her exposed neck. Patience was wearing thin, and so was typical courtesy. While Sansa started losing her mind and control of her body, she still refused to be deterred and ripped the wool covering Jon wore beneath his armor. The material shredded with a resounding tear, but Jon hardly heard it over the eager sounds falling from Sansa's lips. Her sounds were what he much preferred to focus on, even as mad as they drove him. Within moments, her dress had fallen in a pool around her ankles and his hands were running down her body until reaching her hips, where he lifted her and wrapped her legs around his waist. 

As if knowing the steps to a dance neither of them had learned properly, they moved together. Jon's fingertips dug into Sansa's hips, clutching her to him as they stumbled towards the bed in a mess of heavy breathing and lips against any exposed flesh they could reach. Sansa kicked her shoes off behind Jon's back and held his broad shoulders, light from the hearth flickering around them madly while Sansa's back met the furs of Jon's bed. The bastard pulled his tunic off over his head while Sansa tugged impatiently at his breeches and kissed his newly exposed chest. Having none of it, Jon pushed Sansa back down onto the bed and covered her body with his while he captured her mouth with his own once more. The kiss was angry and starved. Teeth gnashed against lips until they were swollen and the faint taste of metal joined their kiss, but Jon did not know which of them was bleeding. The sound of more fabric tearing caused Jon to look down their bodies, and was surprised to find it was his own hands that had torn Sansa's small clothes open. Sansa's hands ran over the scars of Jon's chest... Tracing the betrayal that sent him to his grave. She touched them as if healing him with her touch, and if Jon were a more religious man, he would spend his nights praying to Sansa instead of any false gods. She was his god now, and he intended to worship her.

Jon's breeches hung low on his hips as he feared removing them entirely. How much control did he have? How much longer could he stand the feeling of her hands, and the taste of her lips? As if reading his mind, Sansa pulled Jon back into another kiss and lifted her hips eagerly to meet his. Jon groaned and tried to pull back from the kiss, but Sansa wouldn't have it. He cursed the honorable Stark blood that coursed through him and looked down at Sansa with fire blazing inside of him.

“I'll kill you myself if you stop.” Sansa warned him through ragged breaths. Need was consuming them both and strangling them. Air was being sucked from the room and the only time he could catch his breath was when his lips were on hers, and didn't understand how that could possibly be.

Jon kissed down Sansa's neck, and continued pressing hot, open mouthed kisses down to her chest before his roughened hands met her breast. He lapped at one lovingly, not stopping until he'd teased a soft pink nipple to a stiffened peak. His hand kneaded the other, massaging it while rubbing his thumb over her nipple in a soft circle. Beneath him, Sansa writhed and gasped. Her hips were lifting once more, impatient as ever, and Jon was happy to oblige. His mouth continued moving south on Sansa's body until his lips were kissing soft, red curls. He brought one of his hands to the junction of her thighs while the other parted her legs. He gazed hungrily upon the sight before him... Sansa splayed out, panting on his bed with blushed cheeks. Never had she been more beautiful than from where he saw her then. He looked upon her face as he brushed his thumb up the center of the curls, feeling excitement surge though him as he was met with her body shuddering beneath him. Sansa bit her wrist to stay silent as she watched Jon with no clear idea of what he was going to do.

It was that moment that he knew she had never been treated properly. That Ramsay had not, even for just a moment, cared if Sansa felt good when he did what ever he pleased to her. Anger pushed Jon forward, determined to elicit more sounds and shivers from his lover. He replaced his thumb with his tongue, moving it in broad stokes up towards her swollen bud, where he curled his tongue and circled it with the tip. Suddenly, Sansa's wrist was no longer enough to muffle her sounds and she cried out with pleasure. Her hands were tangled in Jon's black hair while he continued lapping greedily at her bud. The space around them was fast filling with sounds of Sansa's pleasure as she tried to wriggle away from his mouth, as if the sensation was too much. “J-Jon...Please...” She begged, and his length throbbed against the fabric of his breeches.

Jon sat up on his knees and started pushing his breeches off his hips the rest of the way, only to be met with Sansa sitting up and shifting their position, so that he now was laying on his back instead. Confusion was etched into the bastard's face while something else entirely had made itself at home in Sansa. Hatred? Fire? Disgust? Passion? Jon supposed that it mattered not, as his breeches were swiftly removed and without warning, Sansa sat astride his hips. Jon growled and gripped Sansa's hips, but her hand had already gripped his length, rendering him useless beneath her. He sighed with relief as her hand moved against him and when he could focus once more, he saw the look of satisfaction in her blue eyes. She was unbelievably insufferable, but gods be good, her hand was soft against him. Sansa's stroking became relentless and Jon felt like she was being true to her word about killing him. He ached and burned, and wanted to beg the Queen of Ice above him to end his misery. 

With clumsy inexperience, Sansa guided his length into her wet heat. The redhead inhaled sharply as Jon became completely sheathed within her, and he echoed the sound as he held her hips still. She looked at him with a feral gaze as her breathing became more ragged, and stared upon his face as she finally began moving her hips against his. Gods! Jon groaned and lifted his hips to meet hers, and was met with a loud cry from Sansa at the depth. She threw her head back, exposing her throat to him as her red hair cascaded down her back. It was the most maddening sensation Jon had ever experienced. The feeling of wholeness and becoming complete... The feeling of belonging overwhelmed him. Jon sat up and bit Sansa's exposed throat, eliciting a strangled moan from deep in the redhead's throat. One hand braced itself on Sansa's hips, helping guide her ministrations and keep her stable, while the other moved to where their bodies met. His thumb brushed her bud and he licked and bit at her throat with relentless need.

“I'll kill you, Jon,” Sansa cried, gripping handfuls of his hair and moving her hips faster against his. She refused to still her hips for even a moment, now pulling at his hair as they both started to lose hold of sanity. “If you ever stop loving me.” The end of her sentence shocked Jon. How long had she known? Longer than he knew himself, if he had to guess. Was it painful and obvious? The tenderness and frustration... The jealousy and longing. It could be nothing else but love and the madness it wielded.

“Even if I wanted to stop... I cannot.” He answered against her neck and enveloped her waist in his arms, pulling her body against his while he kissed her shoulder, her neck, her jaw, her chin... Tears streamed down Sansa's cheeks as she shuddered against him, falling apart around him. She cried out his name, followed by a symphony of moans and heavy breaths. Her hips moved out of necessity to chase the feeling that made her cry. The feeling of release, of being loved, of finally letting go... Letting go of everything that held her back. Jon lifted his hips against hers, meeting her weakening movements as they finished the dance that was as old as time itself. His own breathing became ragged and shallow, and it wasn't until Sansa yanked Jon's hair back and stared in his eyes with her ice and fire gaze, that he could no longer hold back. He parted his lips and groaned loudly but his sounds were swallowed by Sansa while Jon twitched inside her with his release. The world was spinning, and when everything was stripped away... There was nothing left but Sansa. 

After collapsing back on the bed and catching their breath, there was silence. The hearth crackling was not enough to distract Jon's mind from what was to come. It was Sansa to quell the thickening quiet. “Tell me you'll let me help you.” She whispered into the flickering darkness, with her chin resting on Jon's chest. They were a tangled mess of limbs and it was unclear where one ended and the other began.

“No, Sansa. I will not work side by side with that traitor's men.” Jon sighed. “I won't lose. Ramsay will not have you, and neither will Baelish.” He warned before clenching his jaw at the thought. He untangled himself from Sansa and pulled his breeches back on. He could hear a stifled sob behind him from the one he truly loved, and Jon hated himself a bit more for it. Hated himself for making her worry, hated himself for who he was, and hated himself for what he had done and all that he had to do.

“You promised-” Sansa pleaded, pulling the furs up to her chest.

“And I intend to keep my promise. I'll never stop loving you, and no one will ever touch you again.” Jon stated, then turned to look over his shoulder at Sansa. “Because you are mine.” His dark eyes bore into hers, needing her to understand that he meant his words. A flicker of relief passed over Sansa's face... A relaxation, a sense of satisfaction, or perhaps even peace. Jon stood from the bed and pulled on his tunic and his cloak, slipped on his boots, and left the bed chambers without looking back at her. He stepped out into the corridor and followed it until it led him out into the cold night air and let his feet carry him to wherever they felt he needed to go.

Jon didn't stop walking until he reached the godswood and fell to his knees in front of the weirwood tree. A sob wracked through his body as he placed his palm flat against the frozen earth. Jon lifted his head, looking into the seemingly bleeding eyes of the ancient tree. “Forgive me, Father...” He pleaded and bowed his head in front of the tree once again, letting himself cry for the sins he had committed, and for all the sins that would follow.


End file.
